The Lancaster Murderer

Luxury Suites, 3:30 AM

EPISODE XI.

Everything is sort of a blur, but I'm definitely grasping onto my senses more than I was an hour ago. The pain in my head is nearly enough to make me sick. My forehead has a cut along the top from when I was shoved against the mini-fridge's shelf, and there's a giant knot on the side of my head from being slammed with the door. The combination of the two is enough to make me feel like someone is squeezing my brain. When we got back to the apartment, Izayah started to ask if I wanted an icepack for my head, but quickly realized that ice was the last thing I wanted.

Izayah made me hot tea, drew a steamy bath, laid down some of his clothes on the bathroom counter, then left to fix up breakfast/dinner. "Take your time and call if you need anything," he said. When he left, I secretly hoped he was making omelets, but I didn't want to make a request. I was already invading his apartment because he felt bad for me. I wasn't about to start ordering him around like he was room service.

At first, being in the water didn't even register on my skin. But after breathing in the wafting plumes of pine-scented steam, soaking in the heat to the point that I started to feel the frostbitten cuts on my knuckles, and reclining in the tub until my hair was entirely wet, I started to defrost. The water was like a wool blanket fresh out of the dryer. I wet my cracked lips so I could slightly smile in the serene setting.

But my moment of calmness is flitting. As I close my eyes in an attempt to relax, I just see Sara Marshall's decapitated corpse, swaying like an old Salem witch on a noose, promising to curse all who witnessed her death. The rotting, meaty flesh of her insides, the flashes of white bone, the sticky gray pallor of her aged skin – I can't get any of it out of my head.

Jackknifing up makes my head spin, but it's better than laying down and seeing that horrible image again.

I reach to the side of the tub and pick up the hot tea; honey dew flavored with agave sweetener. Sipping the warmth restores my throat, which was raw from use and chapped from the freezer. I feel my insides thawing out, the deathly clutches of ice retreating like snow in the sun.

The scent of eggs creeps into the bathroom. Mixed with the tea, the bathroom takes on a homely smell. Homely, which isn't a word I would use to describe Izayah's apartment at all. I almost forgot that he had next to no personal belongings whatsoever until he carried me in tonight.

Frowning, I revisit his moments of absence at the party. I know he didn't hurt me, but until I figure out exactly what he was doing, I won't be able to focus on much else.

Finishing up my bath, I change into Izayah's clean clothes, dry my hair, and head out with the resolve to establish a clear timeline of the party.

As I hoped for, Izayah has just finished up cooking omelets, two plates set out on the bar counter for us. "Perfect timing," he hums, keeping his voice low and looking at me with a concern that tells me he thinks that being too loud would somehow hurt me. "How do you feel?"

"Amazing," I bitterly reply, digging into my food. Izayah frowns, but wipes his face clean of emotion before I can think too much of it. I realize I'm being ungrateful and amend my reply. "I feel a lot better. Thanks for letting me crash here tonight, I really appreciate it."

"Actually," he starts, finishing a bite of egg. "I was thinking it might be better for you to stay here until they revoke 'crime scene' status on your apartment."

"I couldn't," I quickly answer, not wanting to be an inconvenience.

"You could," he plainly states. "You'd be safer here than at Eliza's." I recall Kat crying because she thought she failed me. Seeing her after tonight is something I'll have to do eventually, but I'd rather prefer giving us some time away from each other. At least, I need the space to figure out how I feel about her leaving me alone for all that time. She could've thought I was with Declan the whole time...until I wasn't, and he and Izayah fought.